


And Some of It Was True

by voodoochild



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-06
Updated: 2010-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-07 18:33:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Annie is really out of uniform, the Guv should stop watching City matches, and both are regretting the day Sam Tyler introduced CID to undercover work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Clash's "London Calling".

Annie thinks sometimes that Sam would probably know the word for what he did to her life.

Things like this just didn't happen before he showed up. Or they didn't happen as often, or not where she got to know about them. But then he turns up and the world goes quietly insane around him, changes flying off in all directions like some kind of mad trick break-off shot, and bang, she's out of uniform. And currently, _really_ out of uniform, hanging on the bloody Guv's arm less for appearances and more because she can't stand in these shoes all that well, and wondering why it is she ever, ever wanted to try undercover in the first place. Not to mention why she's still not hating it the way she should be right now.

And, all right, maybe a little bit pissed into the bargain, but that part's hardly her fault.

No, that would be the Guv's fault. Working in CID might mean she can match the boys pint for pint at the pub, but the vodka martinis they've both been throwing back at the bar are hitting her right between the eyes. The Guv keeps his arm steady enough, but the way his eyes keep flicking to her plunging neckline, either he's more pissed than she thought or she looks better in this dress than she thought. The neckline scoops deep, she's wearing the best bra she owns, and the hem of the dress - a dark blue satin she's really regretting having to return in the morning - hits her about an inch below her arse.

Even counting the Guv out of it, she's getting enough looks that if Sam weren't home with one of his Incidents, he'd be either in a fistfight by now or trying to shield her with his body. Quite the impression that'd make - she reckons hard man just isn't in his repertoire, or not when there's some girl can take perfectly good care of herself around for him to try protecting.

The Guv elbows her in the side, leans over to growl in her ear: "Red shirt, out by the back door. Seen him?"

She flicks her eyes up to check that yeah, the man and his piss-awful shirt and the gun he's not hiding all that well are still right where she made him last. "The one keeps checking his watch?"

"Good girl," he says - loud enough that time, the bastard - and waves for another round.

"Not for me, thanks," she hisses back, "and keep your bloody eyes up."

And there's this fraction of a second when she just knows what it's like to be Sam and watch the Guv step forward with his fists up - he's just staring at her, and she's stuck frozen noticing how green his eyes are - but then he just laughs out loud.

"Yeah, reckon you're done for the night," he says. "Two more and I'd be carrying you. And I would have you know, Your Highness, that I shall look where I like."

"You wouldn't, though," and she could really go without ever seeing his _'two seconds, you, to start making some bloody sense'_ face again in her life. "I mean Sid wouldn't. He's already got me. He's seen it. He wouldn't be bothering to look."

There's a gleam in his eye that she's not sure she wants to understand, as he bends down to whisper into her ear. "Sweetheart, even if I'd seen it every day for a year, I'd still be lookin'."

He hooks a finger into the fallen-down strap of her dress, tugs it back into place, and runs the backs of his knuckles lightly over the bared tops of her breasts. It's such a tiny, quick touch, but it causes a low twist in her stomach that isn't unexpected. She's had a thing for his hands ever since he walked into CID with those leather driving gloves a year back.

She shifts closer, tucking herself into the curve of his body as she glances back at their suspect. Mark Benner, priors running back to '52, prostitution and bootlegging in the beginning, but they've just about got enough evidence to charge him with running a prozzie snuff ring. Hires girls to do "escort" work, then films the clients strangling or shooting or stabbing them. Benner's a fuckin' ghoul, and it'd taken all of her ability to convince the Guv she wanted in on the collar.

'Course it involved dressing like a tart and hanging all over the Guv for an evening, but really, who else was going to do it well enough to convince Benner she was a prospective hooker for his "service"?

"Almost sweet of you to say, sir," she says, butts him with her shoulder, and decides to really not think about how she's practically falling out her dress even when she holds still; from the way his eyes slide down, he's doing the noticing for them both.

"Yeah, so vodka gets your knickers off, and I'm filing that for future reference." He lifts his fourth - wait, no, fifth martini. Christ, and he'd been into the flask earlier, she hopes he's standing by closing time - and makes ridiculous eyes at her over the rim. "Now step off a bit, will you, he won't bite if we look too busy."

He's right, he's just always right, and she cants her hips away from him. It's perfectly reasonable, yeah, to be a little sorry about that: she's standing here with her tits hanging out waiting for a murdering sex fiend to take the bait, and she can barely walk in her shoes, and it's reassuring to be pressed up against anyone not actually wanting to kill her. She turns, and looks up at Benner again. Colorless little man, he is, other than the shirt, and he's not fooling anyone with the way his hair's combed, and there's no way any girl wouldn't be afraid of him just by the looks.

And yeah, there it is, there's the little spike of anger she needs to let her swallow hard and be smiling when he looks up again. It's a good smile, she's been practicing in the mirror the last two days - _yeah, I know you_, it says, _and wouldn't you just like to know me too_?

Benner quirks an eyebrow at her - _what, me?_ \- and she bites her lip, and that must look not-angry enough to get the job done, because he doesn't quite smile, but the corner of his mouth turns up and the lines around it go carved-deep.

And she can hear the Guv breathe out, hard, like he's just taken a punch; "Good girl," he says again, low enough to let her hear it in her bones.

"Right. Game on, then."

~*~*~*~

If she didn't know the Guv enough by now to trust him, she'd go even colder all over at the look on his face when he waves the man to them.

She knows that look - the one he gets when Sam goes off on one of his funny "this isn't how it's supposed to be" turns - and even though it scares her, she'd rather be on his arm than Benner's. The Guv bashes heads in, but he doesn't kill people, least of all women.

Benner, knockoff snakeskin boots sliding on the spilled-booze floor, sidles over, chewing on a toothpick. He's already eying her up and down, and she wants to shift closer to the Guv, curl back into the dead zone of his protection. Course, he'd never let her on an undercover job again and she wouldn't hear the end of it from the blokes in CID, so she doesn't. Just keeps her cover close, toying with the long strand of fake pearls looped around her neck and biting her lip all little-girl-cute.

"'Ello there, kitten. Got a name?"

She opens her mouth to speak, but no, Benner hates mouthy and forward women, so she looks over at the Guv (Sid), and can't keep herself from flinching at the way he draws himself up. He's practically looming over Benner, and it's making the man cagier than before.

"Yeah, she's got one. Whether or not you find yourself gifted with it depends on if you've got the bread to pay for it."

Benner's mouth folds up again. "That's the way it is now, is it?" He fumbles in his jacket pocket, comes up with a crumpled Silk Cut packet and a heavy inlaid silver lighter. Cigarette between his teeth: "Ought to keep a lead on this one, mate, I tell you. Some pair of eyes on her." He flicks the lighter, and the click of it goes right up her nerves.

The Guv hooks an arm around her waist, pulls her in tight against him; his fingertips tap her hipbone, lighter than she'd have thought he could touch anything. "Yeah, cheers. I'll keep that in mind next time I think she's breathing without my say-so. And I assure you, that ain't right now."

"Is that the case?" And it's a good thing, honestly, she's already used to men who talk over her head - it makes things easier, almost, to just breathe and go blank and turn the volume on them down. "Then I think we're owed an introduction. Mark Benner." The hand he holds out is thin, long-fingered, elegant except for the torn-down mess of his nails; the Guv doesn't so much as look down at it.

"Sid Ritchie. I fuckin' know who you are." She could kick him for letting the cover drop long enough to let her, let anyone, hear the ice in those words. "Nancy, love, ask the man what he's drinking?"

"Gin and tonic." His eyes cutting into hers are colorless, but for the red spiderweb of burst blood vessels in the left. "Nancy, is it? And would you do anything, dear?"

"I might," she says, and the Guv's hand tightens. Bad musical theatre jokes aside, they haven't exactly discussed how far she can go in this job - how far he'll let her go, really. She wants Benner locked into the dirtiest cell in CID, she really does, but she's not sure she wants to actually strip down for the bastard.

Benner's laugh is high, grating - exactly the kind that'll set your teeth on edge. Yeah, definitely not stripping. "Then I think we could have ourselves an understanding."

"Look here, mate," the Guv cuts in, "Only understandin' going on 'round here is that you speak to me. Not her. And she goes nowhere without me."

Oh, right - like that's gonna be acceptable behavior for a prozzie. A girl has her pimp for financial protection, not armed backup. And Benner doesn't truck with anyone who's got too many ties; girls with friends, family? They're more likely to be missed. She's got to appeal to that side of him, or he'll never take the bait.

She holds up a finger to Benner. "Just a 'mo, luv - you know how it is with johns. Gets all insecure-like. Sid just needs a little reassurance."

Benner spreads his hands, smirks, and God only knows what he's thinking now, but he stays right there and lets the Guv grab her arm and drag her down the other end of the bar, where the music's loudest. She steps in, snuggles right up to him, arms around his neck, and thank bloody God he gets it - bends his head down to hers, and plants his hand in the small of her back. Girl making back up to man, everyone's seen that.

"I will bloody pull you out of here," he mutters, so deep it's almost lost in the bass from the speakers. His breath's hot on her skin. "We've got him on solicitation, add on resisting arrest if he sodding looks at that door again, that'll buy us enough time to make him sweat. We'll get Tyler out of bed and send him down the warehouse again, he still reckons he missed something last time -"

"Guv," she says, and he goes very still against her. "You scared?"

And if she were anyone else, if anyone heard, he'd raise his hand, but he only looks down and away from her. "No one lays hands on my team."

She laughs. She makes herself laugh; the sound carries. "You think I can't handle myself?"

"You hiding a gun in that outfit, Cartwright? Wouldn't I just like to see where."

His hand slides down, curve of her arse, top of her thigh, and she's flushed from the drinks but her skin feels cold as death next to his hand. Makes her shiver a little, makes Nancy shiver a little, and giggle, and go up even further on tiptoe to whisper in Sid's ear.

"It's never the first night," she says, and she doesn't even know where she's getting this from. "First night he just films 'em, right? Films 'em alone. That's what he needs. I don't think he's laying hands at all."

Sam had said something about that, about how Benner never turned up on any of the reels they've found, but they'd all thought it was nothing but common sense. She can feel Benner's eyes on her back, though, feel him watching her, and she feels ten feet tall suddenly and terrified and invulnerable and calm and right all at once.

"I will never let you listen to Tyler again," he says, and she knows it's the closest she'll get to conciliation.

"I can do what I have to do, Guv," she says. Pitches forward on her toes and lets her lips just brush against his, so light it's more like their breath touching, and now everyone thinks they know what's going on. "Just let me."

He threads a hand through the back of her hair, and anchors her in place, eyes boring sharp green into hers. Making it look good. Making it look like he's letting her have her way - because he is - and along with the way he turns his back to Benner, making it look like he's jealous.

She can't say she minds.

"You get hurt and you won't have to worry about Sammyboy getting his knickers in a twist. You've got me to answer to, got it?"

Oh, he thinks he's mad now? She tilts her head to the side, kisses him slow and sure and mainly just to shut him up. And by the way he holds tighter to her hair and deepens the kiss with a hot swipe of his tongue, she's pretty sure it worked. Especially since she's not the only one breathing a bit shaky when he pulls away - and, all right, it's going to have to be another one of the things she never ever thinks about, at least for now, the way she can't quite tell what they've just done. His mouth's all over lipstick. She's only just not quite mad enough to wipe it off him herself.

"Right." He tugs her hair a little, unwinding his fingers from it, not quite so sharp that she could accuse it of not being an accident. "Then let's go get your man."

He follows her, this time, back down the other end of the bar.

~*~*~*~

Benner's staring at them both like they're something wonderful on the telly, and it makes her skin creep about the worst it's ever done, but she grins with her smudgy mouth and lowers herself back down on the stool next to him.

"Business and pleasure?" he says, over her head again. "Dear oh dear, mate. My old dad used to call that the mark of a reckless man."

"You know birds," The Guv snaps his fingers for another round. "Let 'em win every now and then, give 'em a long rein, keeps them happy and they'll work their arses off to get it again. Am I right, Nancy?"

He grips her shoulder, just this side of hard enough to bruise, and she makes herself laugh again. Squirms in her seat, a little, because it's what Nancy would do. "Oh, always."

"Now," and he strokes along the neckline of her dress with his thumb, where Benner almost definitely can't see, "I believe we were talking business."

Benner puffs out noticeably - they're back in his net - and starts running his mouth off about cutting a deal: one night with Annie to 'put her through her paces, make sure she's suited to the business', then claiming he'll pay double the money if a customer gets rough. The Guv nods and barters and generally makes all the arrangements - she's not expected to do much but stick her tits out and giggle in all the appropriate places - but his hand keeps trailing over the bare skin between her neckline and her shoulder. And he never, ever, allows Benner to get between them.

"Right then, Sid," Benner says, reaching out and hooking an almost-painful grip on her wrist. "I'll just be off with her. Don't wait up."

Oh, bollocks - he's expecting the "tryout" to be tonight. Now. He's gone and assumed that just because money's changed hands, she'll be meek and sweet and trot along with him.

And really, one should never lay their hands on one of Gene Hunt's coppers. Not unless they want a sucker-punch to the gut.

"My fault!", the Guv calls cheerily, wheeling Benner around to lead him toward the door to the back alley. "Too many Saturday City matches - me hands just get a mind of their own."

"Sid!" she hisses - and proud of herself for keeping cover, too, like there's even anything she could have done and been worse off - but it's just too bloody late again to call him off. Like she's meant to be flattered watching him blow their sting to pieces, like she should come over faint knowing he can't keep his fists to himself long enough to let her try and deal with things. Like the entire bar won't turn their heads to stare at the way he makes damn sure Benner's shoulder hits the doorframe on the way out.

The fact that she doesn't have the faintest idea what Nancy would do about this is just somehow the worst of it, the way that keeps her frozen to her seat for an extra run of heartbeats before she decides to fuck the bleeding cover, and if there's a god for policewomen he's watching over her just far enough to make sure she doesn't break her damn neck chasing after them.

"- don't know what your game is, pal," Benner's saying as she makes it through the door at last (panting, and convinced she'd rather spend her life in Phyllis's orthopedics than stand in these heels again), and at the very least the Guv doesn't seem to have kicked his face in yet; he's got Benner pinned to the wall and an arm across his neck, and they're breathing right down each other's throats.

"My game," and she's heard that quick low tone out of him often enough to know how much trouble they're really in, "was never meant to involve your filthy hands on what's mine, you great arse-faced nonce bender. I heard stories about you, you think I haven't, and if I weren't so hard up and she weren't so damn persuasive I'd be tradin' it meself for two quid and a drag on your cigarette before I'd ever -" he can't have gotten much force behind the punch, not at close range, but Benner shouts through his teeth just the same "-have let you set your fucking eyes on her, are you starting to get the picture?"

And he grabs Benner's hand in his free one and slams it hard against the brick, and Benner yells again, and Annie gasps - she can't help it, stupid girly sound tearing its way from her throat while she stands in the doorway cowering like the dimmest tart they've ever arrested because what the hell is she supposed to say?

Luckily, she doesn't have to say anything, because the Guv's apparently gotten a hold of himself and stopped trying to throttle their mark.

Unfortunately, that's also a mistake, as Benner goes for the pocket of his jeans, pulls out a switchblade, and hauls her by the wrist close enough to put the blade to her throat.

"Wrong move, bright boy," Benner says, acid-sweet tone in his voice and absolutely reeking of cigar smoke. "Think I'm gonna go through on our deal, and have your pretty little bird every way I can. Ain't a damn thing you can do about it, either."

Fuck. Bleeding buggery fuck, why's it always gotta happen to her? It's like she's psycho-bait. She's the only bird in the department, but seriously, if she were a criminal? She'd have better luck holding Chris or Sam hostage. Chris would probably cry like a toddler and Sam would talk it to death.

And none of that has anything much to do with the way her knees would be giving out if she weren't just too determined that Benner won't be the only thing holding her up, but she's trying not to think too hard about that or his breath on her cheek, or the wet-cool feel of metal on her skin. She can be calm, she can be still inside, for all she feels like a rabbit caught in the lights.

"Any way you can?" the Guv says, and fuck, she doesn't like the brittle lightness in his voice, or the way his eyes narrow. "Don't you worry, love. He'll be done in no time." And he shifts his weight, just so slightly, and his right hand twitches towards his coat pocket - and God she'll decide bloody later if she wants to kiss him or tear his face off for getting her into this, she half-thinks he'd decide to let her, but right now she really will break if he keeps on.

"You don't want to do this," she stammers, "not really, not right out in the open like this, just let me go and we'll talk, yeah? Anything you want, I swear."

And that she can feel his head turn as his attention flicks from the Guv to her is - it's useful, and as far as she's concerned that's all it needs to be.

"Oh, sweetheart," Benner says, and nudges the blade an inch further up her neck, "this ain't about what I want. You're the one came to me."

"Yeah," she breathes, jutting her chest out and wriggling back against him in what she swears is just meant to be another distraction. If he's concentrating on her tits bouncing out of her dress and her arse rubbing against him, he's not looking at the Guv edging toward his gun.

Benner blows more stale cigar smoke in her face as he laughs. "Seems like your girl ain't as put out by my treatment of her as you are, Sid. Look at her - panting for it like a bitch in heat. Oh, I'm gonna enjoy getting her riled up."

He clutches the knife closer to her jaw, and she tries to stifle the shriek that wants to let out. Settles for a high, reedy gasp, which Benner seems to like, if the hard-on pressing into her back is any indication. God, if he gets any closer, he'll be fucking her, and her skin's beyond-crawling and getting toward that too-tight feeling. She's been slobbered over and pawed-at by the best of them, but there's something about this freak that's scaring the hell out of her.

Before she can clamp down on that panic impulse, the Guv moves in a blur of black wool and bleached denim. Pistol-whips Benner right upside the head with his sidearm, and pulls her to him, his hand immediately pressing to her neck to make sure Benner hadn't stuck her.

Benner slumps to the ground, out like a fuckin' light, thank goodness.

"Word 'a advice, mate," he says, moving his hand from her neck to her waist to anchor her. "Girl like this? Guy like me? Not actually a prozzie and john. If you'd any sense in that head of yours, you'dve made us right when I threw you against that wall."

"You didn't exactly give him any chance to think." Her voice is going thin and wobbly, and she swallows back hard on something that can't make up its mind to be a laugh or a fit of tears - whatever it is, she doesn't think it could stop if she'd let it start.

The Guv snorts. "You're a daft tart, Cartwright, balls of steel or no," he says, almost conversational enough that she could miss the wear in his voice. "How about next time you leave the roughing-up to me?"

"Next time, is it?" And she can go ahead and tell herself she's not just shivering because of the nerves - it's even true enough, with her not dressed for outdoors this time of year - but there's no excuse for the swimming, empty feeling in her head. Something like almost-drowning, the time when she was little and paddled out to the deep end of the baths and panicked when she couldn't touch her toes to the bottom, that same wide bright airlessness. She hears her own voice with an echo. "Does that mean I get a next time?"

"Assuming Tyler doesn't rise from his sickbed to murder me first." He pats her hip, absent-mindedly almost, the heat from his hand as distant as his voice. "It's not like we could get Phyllis into that dress, is it?"

She giggles, and the sound snags in her throat. He doesn't miss the way she's barely hanging onto his arm. Wraps his arm more closely around her like it's second nature - and she supposes it is, after she's just snogged him in the dingiest of back-alley pubs - and leads her toward the street.

"C'mon, love. Past your bedtime."

Much as she'd like to whinge at him for implying she's little more than a child, it's way past three, and she's been up for more than thirty hours. Her hair's already sweated out the aerosol she'd sprayed on, and seems to be frizzing higher and higher with each minute, and if she doesn't get out of these fucking shoes, she's going to start bleeding from the toes. This doesn't even begin to cover the bruises under her arms and along her sides she's going to have from all the manhandling.

But no, she has a job to do. Ray and Chris, they wouldn't be focusing on their hair when they had a suspect to drag into custody.

"What about Benner, Guv?"

He doesn't even look back, guiding her around the corner and across the road to where they'd hid the Cortina down another alley. "Calling it in soon as we get to the car. Don't worry, he's taken care of."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Annie is really out of uniform, the Guv should stop watching City matches, and both are regretting the day Sam Tyler introduced CID to undercover work.

She knows there are a million things she ought to do, but she can't pull enough of herself together to line up the words. Just leans on him and makes her steps measure up to his - anyone watching would think she were blind pissed, the way she's trembling, even before her fucking heel snags in the pavement and almost turns her ankle. The little noise her throat makes would be a sob, if she'd let it.

"Steady on, Cartwright," the Guv says almost under his breath, "not far now, and you'll be very angry with me if I have to carry you."

"No fury like it," she says, and he laughs out loud - it's not a soft noise so much as a hard one weathered down. "Guv, are you sure-"

"Nearly always." He gropes in his pocket for his car keys, presses them into her hand. "Radio?"

She lets herself in the passenger side, and feels down between the seats for the radio unit. He takes it and slams the door shut to lean against; she can just hear his voice, can't really read much in the set of his back, the half-fist curl of his empty hand, but it doesn't stop her feeling like she should be able to. Idly she crosses her legs at the knee, digs a thumb into the knot of muscle at the back of her right calf. She'll be aching for days.

And it's too easy to let her eyes fall shut, so she feels him get in before she sees him - door pulled closed so hard the car rocks a bit, and she opens her eyes just in time to catch the radio when he pitches it into her lap.

"Right. Incidentally," he says, "I don't want hide nor hair of you round the station tomorrow. You're to stay home and get a decent night's sleep. I've told Phyllis and now I'm telling you."

She sets the radio down on the seat between them, and curls further into the brown leather, pushing a beer can aside with the heel of her foot. "You serious? I'm gettin' an actual day off?"

He turns the key in the ignition, drumming his fingers on the wheel impatiently as the engine turns over. "Don't count your chickens, Cartwright. I'm only giving you the entire day because it's near four, and all good little plonks need their beauty sleep."

"Saying I'm not beautiful, then?"

Oh, fuck. She didn't mean it like that. It should be arch, flirty, funny; it sounds needy and far too shrill. She's willing to ignore that if it means continuing this pingpong flirting between them that's been going on all night. See if maybe Sid and Nancy can turn into Gene and Annie. But she can't see any of the Guv in the man next to her - long black duster, tight bleached denim, green shirt half-unbuttoned, hair spiked up with some of Phyllis's extra-hold - and she wonders if she shouldn't just keep her mouth shut until she gets home.

His hands clench tighter on the wheel, black leather squeaking against brown, and he won't look at her. She can see the muscles jump in his hands, where the leather cuts away to the skin, and she realizes she's got no idea anymore if she's drunk or not; everything's all at once too clear and too far away, like a film, like remembering a dream.

"Saying you're tired," he says at last. "And it's a filthy lie about vodka and hangovers, you know. I don't need you there wishing yourself dead every time I had to slam a door on someone."

The seat leather's cool on sticky skin: she feels indescribably grimy, and weirdly naked for it, like the dress itself might wash off when she gets in the bath. Decent luck for her if it would, she can't quite handle the thought of washing it to give back, but with her eyes shut at least she doesn't have to look down and see herself.

"Would you say the same thing to Sam?" she says, and doesn't quite realize she'd thought it until the words are out of her mouth.

"Ask me that after the next time I have to drive him home at four in the bloody morning," and there's nothing too wrong in his voice, but she's a bit glad not to be seeing his face, "I might even give you an answer."

The car swerves a bit, and when she opens her eyes he's got one hand off the wheel, feeling in his coat pocket. The flask's whatever the opposite is of a surprise; he thumbs it open one-handed, delicate with his fingertips the way he can be when he thinks no one's looking.

"Pull over if you're gonna drink that." She puts her head back again, curls her legs up onto the seat underneath her; her skirt's riding, and she couldn't care if she tried, and God, all she wants is home.

He finally looks at her, surprised, but also not at all. Like he knew she'd disapprove of the flask - because they all do, she and Sam and his wife who hasn't been home for a week this time - but surprised she said something. They all usually turn a blind eye to a good deal of his drinking, but hell if she's going to let him get in a crash-up, after the night they've been through.

The cap to the flask clicks back on as she watches him, and he slips it back into his coat. "S'late. You need to get home and I need to change out of this bloody fairy getup before the lads in CID see me. Can't very well be the sheriff wearing a nonce shirt and Tyler's jewelry."

It's almost a shame - she rather likes Sid's clothing - but since she's been itching and pulling at the side of her bra for the past three hours, she can't blame him for wanting to get into comfortable clothes. She uncrosses her legs and stretches them out a little, pretending she doesn't notice how the Cortina swerves ever so slightly. He takes the turn to her street a little wide, screeching to a halt outside her flat.

"All right then, Nancy. Last stop."

"Come up."

She didn't want to say it. She's going to get her arse laughed out of CID and very probably Manchester for making a pass at her DCI, but after four hours of Sid-and-Nancy, his hands all over her, his voice scraping into her ear, and the sour-sweet booze-and-fags taste of him she hasn't gotten out of her mouth, she's tired of dancing around it. Can't decide, quite, if what she wants is his hands all over her or never to be touched again, but she does want; it's running all through her, static-prickling, alongside and under the exhaustion. Of course it was the wrong thing to say, she can feel it as the words land on him - frozen-still, but his gloves creak again, and his mouth goes tighter than a fist.

"You," and his voice is level and cold enough that every word clicks like a bullet being loaded, "are drunk off your bloody tits. And if you think you're where you are now because I wanted it on tap just that bad, I hope you've kept your uniform ironed, 'cause you are too bloody stupid to stay on my team."

It's like being slapped, like having all the wind knocked out of her, so much of a shock it doesn't hurt. Just leaves her gasping, awkward, exposed, angry enough to shake the rest of it off a bit.

"You think I'd be here if I thought that?" Her voice is edged in glass, raw, twisting too high up the scale with every word. "I'd go off and work in a shop first, you know it. I don't want anything from you except - upstairs, with me, now, take it or don't."

He laughs, short and harsh. "And what shall we say to Tyler then, eh?"

Tyler. It's always bloody _Tyler_ with him. What Sam thinks, wants, needs - she should just buy them a bottle of Dom Perignon and lock them in the supply closet together.

"Leave Sam out of it," she grits out. "If, you know, he's allowed to take a piss without you this week."

"And here was me thinking it was you dropping your knickers for him." His voice hardens, drops into singsong. "He not doing it for you, love? Or are you just crying for it too bad to care?"

God, he's a fucking bastard, and what she should be doing is slamming the car door in his face and heading up to her apartment. She shouldn't even still be considering this - not with the Guv, of all people - should be making a crack about drinking one too many martinis and planning how best to avoid him tomorrow.

But the thought's been put in her head: does she really care that she's just propositioned her boss? Does she care that the shag probably wouldn't even be worth all the shite she's been through tonight? Not to mention he'd never keep his gob shut if they did go through with it - the whole station'd know before she walked in, and she'd be handing in her badge by teatime.

She'd be a fucking nutter to keep on trying.

"Never mind, then. Obviously I mistook you for someone capable of adult decisions," she says, slinging her purse over her shoulder and opening the door to the Cortina. "Goodnight, Guv."

His hand wrapping around her wrist stops her cold. "I'd be interested to know why you're under the impression that we're done talking."

"I told you, never mind. I've been called a slut often enough for one evening."

His hand loosens, just enough to let her pull her wrist back; she half-throws herself out the door - legs all over the place, not the exit she'd planned - and staggers hard when her feet hit the ground. Holds off on thinking too hard about what she must look like, because if she's going to cry over this she'd rather wait and do it inside, and starts scrabbling for her door key in her purse.

"Cartwright! Get your arse back here. We're not finished." Not quite shouting, not yet, but she wouldn't put it past him to stay there getting louder until the neighbors marched her out to him. She turns, leans on the car door, and he stands on the other side of the open door, hands gripping the metal hard. "All right, then. Tell me why I'm out of line for not wanting your pet pain in the arse challenging me to pistols at dawn tomorrow because I've led his girlfriend down the path of sin, nearly got her throat slit, and then rounded off the evening by shagging her. Bloody made for each other, you were."

And she really has to laugh, even around the snag in her throat; he twitches an eyebrow, there you are then. She swallows.

"Tell me it's because of work," and she hopes they can both just pretend not to notice the way her voice is sliding up and down the scale. "Tell me you just don't want to. Tell me it's because of your wife, if you think anyone believes that. But don't call me names, and don't throw Sam in my face. It's - we're not like that."

Never mind the time she's spent trying to figure out exactly what she and Sam are like, even if he can probably read it off her face as easy as if she'd said it. She's not shagging Sam because - well, for a lot of reasons. Yet again, he's another bloke who doesn't want to get his hands dirty with her. She's his golden girl, his pet WDC psychologist who he tells all his barking mad stories to. Time travel. Stuck in a coma. Meeting his bloody younger self. She'd never be real to him. And the biggest reason - she's pretty sure she lacks the requirements for Sam Tyler wanting to shag her. Wrong gender, for starters. Also, she's not a Cortina-driving, chain-smoking, alcoholic bastard of a Detective Chief Inspector.

There are still some things she can't say to the Guv, thank God.

"Dare I ask what you are like, or shall I surmise from the look on your face that Tyler won't touch you with so much as oven mitts and you're almost 'round the bend because of it?"

"Oh, surmise anything you like. You will anyway." It's as much as saying 'yes,' maybe worse than, but she's long passed the point of not caring too much: she's almost used to the way her legs hurt, and the sky's starting to go grey round the edges, and she thinks she might have gone through tired and drunk and come out the other side. "God knows you usually do."

He nods, once, slow, and his mouth twists up from underneath the way it always does when he's just heard something he can't quite fit together yet. She wishes she knew what she'd just told him.

"You were anyone else," he says, no heat behind it at all, "you'd be lucky if I allowed you to give out parking tickets, the way you've been talking to me."

"Go on, then. After tonight, I might need the rest."

"Oh, and now you're lying to me." She giggles, before she can stop herself, and he smirks outrageously. Reaches out and touches her hand, just once. "Now get back in the car or go upstairs, before someone gets the wrong impression."

She swallows, hard. "And what if I go upstairs?"

He smiles, not one of the rat-bastard smiles he reserves for suspects or the razor sharp grins he gives Sam, but a wry turn of his lips she thinks might be the closest he'll come to actual affection. "Then we'll see if you fuck as smart as you talk, Cartwright."

~*~*~*~

He's watching her while she (God, finally) kicks out of the shoes, while she takes her earrings out, drops the necklace to coil on the dresser-top; he's still dressed except for the jacket, hands in his pockets, watching like he'll have to make a report on this in the morning. It makes the hair on her neck stand up a bit; she feels naked already, dangerously exposed, standing on the edge all by herself and staring down. Her hands would be shaking if she'd let them.

She turns her back on him, dips her head. "Zip me down, then?"

She's expecting him to yank at it, surprised when he goes slow. Slips his hands under the fabric, skims his fingertips down her sides, pulling shivers out of her all the way down. "You just wait and see if I let you out of the station again." Hands on her hips, settling her back against him. "Bloody menace to yourself and society."

He's hard, and her skin warms and sparks where he's touching it; she wants to melt, fall back, slide down to her knees on the floor, anything to draw out that heat. Settles for leaning against him, shifting against him deliberately, trying her damndest to tell him without words that they can do this. His breath is hot against her ear, and she can feel the curve of his smile as he huffs out a laugh.

"And a right bloody tease to boot."

Of course, the fact that he's saying this as his hand slides one strap of her dress down her shoulder is ridiculous. She can't bring herself to care, though, because the warmth of his hand on her bare skin makes her shudder deliciously against him, and his hand comes back to curve around her hip. His teeth graze at the base of her neck, sharp and yet surprisingly gentle. His name, not his title, escapes her mouth in a gasp, and god, it hits her - she's fucking Gene Hunt, not the "Guv". He's doing this right, she realizes - touching her slowly enough to savor it, making her enjoy every second.

And maybe she should start giving as good as she's getting. She reaches a hand up to tangle in his hair and holds him steady as she turns around and kisses him. His mouth opens to her with a groan, and he presses against her, tangling his legs with hers and letting her feel every inch of how much he wants her. Like he could still lie to her after that little display of dominance in the pub.

God, it's just fucking good, kissing him, her mouth on his and his hand creeping down the small of her back; big and wild and terrifying but good, like dancing all night and staying up to watch the sunrise, the way she did before her first day on the job. She claws at his shoulder, nails snagging in his shirt, and he makes a sharp muffled noise and tightens his grip on her arse. She squirms, and her dress slips some more, and it's just bare skin pressed against him. The fabric chafing-rough, almost harsher on her tits than she wants, and she can feel him suck in air when he breaks away. His mouth's smudged pink with her lipstick - and she hadn't thought there'd been any left on - and his hair's in his eyes, and she'd laugh if there were any way he wouldn't take it wrong.

"Smart enough yet?" she says instead, and his mouth twists up.

"Overdressed." He hooks a thumb through the strap that's still hanging on for its life, slides it down and then tugs the dress down over her hips. It slithers to the floor and he steps back, runs his eyes over her head to toe, so deliberately cool that she wants to smack him. "There. Much better."

She fights back at her first instinct, which is still to cover up - pick her dress up, cross her arms over her breasts, tell him to look away - and doesn't move, stares right back at him instead; she feels heated, electric, aware of every inch of skin, like she might go up in flames whether he touches her or not.

"Your turn," she says, and doesn't recognize her own voice. It's softer than she expected, giving him another out. One he doesn't take, as he strips off his coat. He drapes it over the back of a chair, removes his gloves, and starts unbuttoning his shirt cuffs. God, if she could frame him right now - eyes glowing as he teases it out, the corner of his mouth quirking up at her impatient huff, denim stretched tight across his crotch in an unmistakeable erection.

"Think you can keep your hands off me, Cartwright? Look like a bloody lion that's gonna pounce on me soon's I get my kit off."

And that does it. She pops the remaining three buttons on the shirt in quick succession and pulls him toward her, lips fastening to the pulse in his neck as she pushes the shirt off him. A graze of her teeth makes him twitch, a soft bite draws out a moan, and her nails on the bare skin of his back? Inventive, even for him.

"Shut it, Gene, or I won't suck you off like you've been thinking about all night."

He goes still, hand fisted into her hair, and his breathing echoes in her tiny flat. "How'd you guess?"

She has to snicker, sliding her hand down to cup him through the jeans. "Please. You're always goin' off about my lips. Tongue-fucking me in the pub tonight, hands up my skirt? Kind of gave me a clue."

He rolls his hips, pushes into her hand; it makes her shiver, just a bit, the heat there even through the fabric. That this is real, they're really doing this. "Bloody CID birds," he breathes, and there's a tone of voice she'll never be able to hear again. "Just what I always wanted in life, a girl who can tell what I'm thinking."

"That doesn't take a genius." He twists the hand in her hair, just enough that the pain stings and sparks into something brighter, and she gasps a little. "Hey. Sit."

"Hm?" His hand relaxes, and she takes the chance to pull away. Put her hands on his shoulders, nudge him back towards the bed; he gets the hint and sits, legs open and hands braced on the edge, and she settles herself down to the floor. Crouched between his legs, and there's heat radiating off him all around her; she clears her throat hard and unzips him, takes out his cock.

She hasn't done this in ages, and not all that often then; for a moment she's scared she won't remember how, but she's too nerved-up to hesitate. She can't get him very far in - her jaw's stretched, her mouth watering, and she's concentrating too hard on keeping her teeth to herself - but he's hot on her tongue, heavy, salt-musk taste, and she likes it more than she remembers. Enough to have to really try not to shiver when he brushes her hair back behind her ear, strokes down the back of her neck with a shaking hand - and here she'd have thought he'd be the type to push her head down, the arrogant ones usually are - enough that when she reaches between her own legs, presses her knuckles there where the fabric's wet, she has to close her eyes against the bright little shock it sends through her.

"Jesus, love," he gasps, gripping onto the duvet a little tighter. "Gonna kill a man, with that kind o'behavior."

Her knees are getting scraped by the carpet, but she rises up slightly and relaxes her throat enough to take him further in. Swallows reflexively around him and he lets out a string of curses, losing most of them in a drawn-out moan. She still can't move very fast, but she remembers enough from various boyfriends to use her tongue to dip into the slit at the head of his cock. Immediately, he pulls her off, breathing fast and heavy and looking like he could fuck her six ways from Sunday and still not be satisfied.

"Do that again, and I'll come," he growls, and she raises an eyebrow in return. "And I'm not sure you want that."

"Why not?"

He closes his eyes and takes a few breaths. "If I tell you I was really hoping to fuck you tonight, am I gonna get slapped?"

"Only if you'd like that," she says, and he stares down at her for a second before his face cracks and breaks into smiling.

"Public menace." He grabs her wrists, hauls her laughing up to her feet and forward till his breath's hot on her skin. "I should be keeping you locked up."

"You say that like there's room in the cells, sir."

His grip tightens, bruising-hard for a second, and his eyes go wide; something in that sends chills across her skin, makes her want to squirm and squeeze her legs together hard. "Never underestimate my resources," he says, and he's forcing his voice flat; he lets go her wrists, runs a hand down her side and snaps her knicker elastic. "You want to sit in my lap, Cartwright?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

~*~*~*~

She's going lightheaded again, practically weightless, so tense she can barely feel at all with no one's hands on her; his eyes running over her as she backs off and slides her knickers down are the worst kind of not-enough, not quite, keying her nerves up and making her skin electric with no way to channel any of it off.

"If I'd known I could have had that for the asking . . . " She takes the step back to him, and he's on her again. One hand at the top of her arse holding her in, the other groping up, testing, between her legs - she can feel his fingers slip, shameful and hot and breath-stealing all at once. Finds out for himself how much she wants it. "Yeah, Christ. Think you'll do, love."

"Good to know," she gasps out as he spreads her with his fingers, then pushes down with the hand on her back.

It's not easy, him sliding into her for the first time. It's been a while since she's had sex, so she's uncomfortably tight, but he's smart enough, good enough, to stop mid-thrust and let her relax around him. He groans, a thin, high sound she's not sure she wanted to hear from him, because it makes her shiver with its need. His head dips to her chest, and he tongues his way around a nipple, the scrape of his teeth over the pebbled tip just right. He sucks hard at the side of her breast - she'll be sporting reddened marks there for a week, and he'll love it - and she drops fully into his lap, taking him all the way in.

Rather than stay in a sitting position, he falls back onto the bed, with her landing astride him. Doesn't try to roll her over onto her back, and god, she loves that he's kept her on top. She's not anywhere near coming yet, but she's shaking; he's deeper in her than it feels like anyone's ever been, stretch-sting-burn of it sending little sparks chasing down her spine, and she might never catch her breath again. Hard to decide if it's even good, when it's so close to too much that she has to shut her eyes against it, grab his shoulder and dig her nails in, breathe in little singing gasps she can hear like someone else is making them.

She can't even think about what she must be doing to him, even when she can feel it; tension winding his muscles tight, the shiver that jumps through her and into him, hard as an electric shock, when she rolls her hips a bit and he bucks and finds a spot so sharp and deep when he hits it that it nearly hurts. When she can look, he's watching her; flushed, eyes slitted, white-knuckle clinging to the sheets, but he smirks when her eyes meet his.

"You quite recovered yet?"

She laughs, shaky. "Think so, yeah."

"Couldn't be more pleased to hear it." He smacks her hip, not bruising-hard but sharp over the bone. "You're lovely. Move your arse."

Another tart reply is on the tip of her tongue, but she thinks better of it and rolls her hips quick and sharp, drawing a growled string of profanity and a clench of his hands on her hips. She works herself into a rhythm - one he's happy to follow and occasionally break with one or two fast thrusts - and it surprises her when he slides his hand between her legs and begins to rub her clit. Any hopes she's gotten of him being a gentleman are quickly dashed when he loses the rhythm in favor of a hard, bruising pace.

"C'mon, Cartwright. You can take it."

Yeah, she can. Been a while, but she hasn't lost it, not when she tightens her legs around his waist and her cunt around his prick. Swallows his filthy language with a mouth still tasting of his pre-cum and he shudders. She supposes he hasn't done this in a while, because prozzies don't let you fuck them bareback and good little wives don't suck cock. But her? She's an easy, dirty girl, putting out for her DCI, working herself up to come all over him while he ruts up into her. She asked for this, wants it, it's what burns bruises on her skin as she twists in his hands, too tight on her hip and grinding-hard between them. She'll feel him everywhere for days.

"Bloody knew you'd be like this." He sounds like he's fighting, like he's running a race, hair in his eyes and his voice breaking rhythm every other word; she doesn't want to think about how he's sounded like that before, how wet she's going to be the next time she hears him angry. "Too sweet for any of 'em - c'mon, love, fucking take it - I knew you'd open up for me, oh just like that, been thinking about it ever since-"

She leans in, gets her hand in his hair and twists, sucks the words and the startled shout right from his mouth, and God his hand on her at this angle, grinding flesh on bone and he's deep inside her and it's still not enough, nothing's ever going to be enough. "Shut up," too far gone to care what she's saying, "shut up, just, please, I can't --"

"Can so," he growls, brutal scrape of short nails against her clit, and she shrieks, close enough to the edge she's teetering. "C'mon, love, let it go."

Another thrust and rub, and she's coming, blindingly tight around him. He cuts off her yell of his name with his mouth, wounded groan emptying itself into her mouth as he kisses her desperately. She catches a flash of his eyes, black pupil bleeding into the green, as his head tips back. Her mouth fastens to his neck, teeth biting into day-old stubble, and she's going to have beard burn in some very uncomfortable places. But God, it's so worth it, the way his grip tightens on her hip and he shoves up hard, spilling into her.

As he comes down, his hands relax, stroking up and down her back in a rhythm one could call comforting if one weren't shagging one's bastard of a DCI. Not that she's complaining, as she got what she asked for, and that's the most surprising thing about tonight. That she got what she wanted, instead of the Guv leaving her hot and bothered and all by her lonesome.

"You all right?" He strokes her hair, what's got to be lightly for him, works his fingers through a tangle gentler than she would have thought, and she nods. "Then I wouldn't mind breathing."

"Sorry." They both wince when she lifts up. She settles in awkwardly next to him, forehead to his shoulder, curled up round the stinging between her legs; it's been ages, and she hadn't realized, and she isn't sure now how that's supposed to make her feel. There's no rules anywhere about anything like this.

"You start apologizing, I'll tell Raymondo you fancy him." He turns enough to throw a heavy arm across her waist. She snuggles a hair closer. "Jesus, you are a right one, aren't you? Feel like I've been run down by a bus."

"That's 'cause you haven't slept."

He lifts his free hand to where she bit him, touches round the edges of it like it might not bruise if he's light enough, and she shuts her eyes. "Don't underestimate yourself. You're all the trouble I need."

"You ought to go home."

"I ought to do a lot of things, sweetheart." She can hear his voice starting to come back up, the sharp confident normal one, and it makes her sad some way she can't quite figure out. "Not the least of which is go into work about an hour and a half from now looking like I've not just had the night of my last few months."

"You could stay. Call Phyllis and tell her you're keeping an eye on me 'cause I bumped my head."

The arched eyebrow, she expects - the soft, rueful smile that crosses his face, she definitely doesn't. He looks like he could almost consider it.

"And have Sammyboy over here two minutes later to fuss and coo over you? He'd know."

The Guv's right - Sam wouldn't even have to walk through the door. He'd just look at her in that odd, calculating way of his, and see through any attempts at covering up a sticky bed, misplaced clothing and streaked makeup. He's always been able to see through her. And he'd never believe Gene was staying out of the kindness of his heart. According to Sam, their Guv doesn't have one, and if he does, it's locked away so tightly that even Scotland Yard probably can't find it.

"If it matters," he says abruptly, turning his head to look her dead in the eyes. "I thought about it. I really did."

"Yeah," she says, tangling her fingers in his and pulling him close for a kiss. Brushes his lips with hers, and lets him go. "It matters."


End file.
